


Bleeding Hearts (are still beating)

by IrinyaClockworker



Category: Evillious Chronicles
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Study, Colors, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Guilt, Happy Ending, Romance, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, Symbolism, They deserved better, Why isn't Nemesis/Nyoze an actual tag, not necessarily accurate, someone help me fix this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-02
Updated: 2018-07-02
Packaged: 2019-06-01 10:22:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15141050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IrinyaClockworker/pseuds/IrinyaClockworker
Summary: Just because she's broken doesn't mean he can't put her back together.Just because she's bloodstained doesn't mean he can't wash her clean.As long as he's there, she has hope.Also known as, a story about a red-stained girl and the gray-clad man who saved her.





	Bleeding Hearts (are still beating)

**Author's Note:**

> How does one write fluffy romance stories? Well, if you're me, one doesn't. One writes angst-filled romance. Which, of course, means that Nemesis and Nyoze were the perfect choice!
> 
> I can't write fluff properly, so you'll have to settle for this.
> 
> Warning: characterization may not be entirely correct.

If she had a color for the world to paint her in, it would be red. Red, for the blood she spilled everywhere she went. Red, for the wrath that welled up inside her heart and poured out of her in streams of pure, unadulterated hate. Red, red, red, everywhere, on her hands, in her hair, on her clothes, in her eyes.

She hadn't started that way, but then--she'd been used, over and over again, pushed slowly into darkness by those who wanted her only to fulfill their own interests. They'd shoved her into a tiny black box, a trap that kept her locked in bitterness, growing slowly into hatred. They'd locked her in darkness, and no matter how much she'd cried and screamed for the door to be opened, they wouldn't let her out. They'd left her there, suffering alone, in the mire of her own self-loathing--and eventually, that loathing had become all she knew.

It was easier to hate others, she'd discovered, than it was to hate herself. She pushed the hatred outwards, onto others, and watched them die with a smile on her face. Was it wrong, was it crazy for her to feel that way? Were those who called her a murderer right? Maybe. Probably. She wasn't sure she cared. All she wanted was relief, and their deaths provided it, if only for a few brief moments.

So she dyed herself red, and went on killing, doing what she had to do in order to stay alive, to stay even remotely sane.

Gray was the color that turned her world upside-down, the color of the man who saved her from herself. Calm and kind, nothing like her at all--a stable foundation, a rock to support her. At first they spoke in lies, false names to hide themselves from each other; yet as time went by, their facades fell, and they found themselves intertwined in ways that couldn't be undone no matter how hard she tried. And oh, she tried so, so hard--fighting against it as best as she could, pulling back and away, trying to force him out--because they were too different, weren't they? A bloodstained murderess who killed and killed and regretted so little of it, and the quiet calmness that grounded her in reality, wrapping his arms around her and keeping her there, in the moment, with him.

Why he cared, she didn't know, she'd never know--he disapproved of what she'd done, she knew that. He wasn't a killer, not like her. He was a good man, and would never hurt someone the way she did. And she knew, she knew, there was a little part of him that feared her.

It was only right for him to fear her. Wasn't she evil? Wasn't she twisted and wrong? She had countless reasons, countless _excuses,_ but that didn't make it better, it didn't diminish the weight of her sins, the blood on her hands, coloring her in red. What might she do to him, if he made the wrong move? She was a minefield, and not even she knew where it was safe to step.

But then, she was afraid of him, too. She was afraid he would be like all the others, the ones who used her for as long as they could and then discarded her when she had no more to give, who betrayed her and left her to her own devices when she needed them. She was afraid of what secrets he might be hiding, afraid of what she might discover if she looked too hard--afraid that, in the end, he would meet the same fate so many others had at her hands.

Yet, even so, she found herself loving him.

This man who was so different from her, so much better, so much kinder--she loved him, she loved him, _she loved him so much that it hurt_ because there was no way, no way that he could ever love her back.

But he did.

He did, and it was the happiest she'd ever been, because the idea that anyone, much less him, could possibly love her--it was absurd, beyond absurd, outright impossible. But it was true. It was real. It wasn't a dream or a delusion, and the way he held her and kissed her and told her that he loved her was beyond anything she had even imagined could happen.

How it could happen, she didn't know, she'd never understand--but she didn't need to, did she?

Right then, she knew. No matter what he did, no matter what he wanted from her, she would never hurt him, would never be able to. To kill him would be to kill a part of herself, the part that gave her a reason to keep living beyond bringing death.

When the time came to choose, she remembered that, and she chose to live. To hold on in the face of a nightmare, and trust that he would be there just like he'd promised, that she could still be happy. And it was the darkest time of her life, to have hope snatched from her grasp--but she'd placed her hope in him, and he returned it to her, just as he'd promised, just as she knew he would.

There was no more need for blood, with him. There was no more need for hate. When it turned back inwards, towards herself, and she collapsed in despair, he caught her. When she despised herself for the weight of her own sins, he showed her love. When she cried in pain or awoke screaming from nightmares of suffering alone and without hope, he held her and reassured her. From then on, things would be different, things would be all right. She didn't need to feel any more pain, ever again. She didn't need to be alone. She would never be alone again.

All her life, people had lied to her. All her life, people had betrayed her. Yet he spoke only truth, and he never, _never_ abandoned her. No matter what she did, what she said. He was there. Always.

Why, she didn't know. Why, why would he, why would anyone? She didn't know. She didn't care.

He was there. He was with her. And to her, that was more than enough.


End file.
